The Case of the Mottled Eyes
by Blue Fenix
Summary: Holmes accepts a missing-persons case.


The Case of The Mottled Eyes  
by John H. Watson M.D.   
edited by Blue Fenix  
  
Before many months had elapsed in the first year of my association with Sherlock Holmes, he was confronted with what proved to be the most bizarre case of his career. Perhaps I could appropriately say we were confronted, since I played at least an observer's role. Even decades later, I sometimes doubt my own memories that these events occurred. Our involvement in the case began one chilly September afternoon while a cold drizzle beat on the windows of Baker Street. I was dividing my attention between a volume of Edgar Allen Poe tales and an excellent cigar. Holmes occupied himself with an analysis of his latest acquisition, a heavy, strangely carved gold ring. This ring was the only relic (other than my shattered nerves) of our maddening encounter with a young American who referred to himself simply as "The Doctor."  
  
"As I suspected, Watson," Holmes said, turning his thin face from his chemical apparatus. "The metal of this ring is neither gold, electrum, brass, nor any known alloy. Furthermore, the symbols inscribed on it are part of no documented alphabet. The deduction is, of course, obvious."  
  
Early as it was in our association, I was well aware of my expected role as Greek chorus. "That deduction being?"  
  
"That we were quite right in turning Mr. Retsam over to the Doctor's custody. I hope our young friend reached his destination safely," Holmes said. "At any rate, Watson, it is almost four o'clock. A short note arrived in this morning's post, I expect another client momentarily."  
  
"Not another American I hope," I groaned.  
  
"No, an Australian." Holmes placed the curious ring in a locking drawer of his desk. "A simple case, judging by the gentleman's note, though an unappetizing one. Someone has evidently been exploiting a helpless old woman. Still, even the simplest cases can present interesting facets to the abstract reasoner." A knock at the door cut off Holmes' explanation. "And that, I expect, is the client himself." I attempted to rise, but my old wound had stiffened in the damp weather and Holmes reached the door first. "Come in, Sir."  
  
A venerable gentleman of at least eighty years entered our rooms, his wool coat still damp from the tempest outside. "Mr. Roland Brown, I presume? I am Sherlock Holmes; my colleague, Dr. Watson. Please be seated, sir."  
  
Brown nodded his gratitude and found an armchair before the fire. I did not need Holmes' deductive powers to note the ravages of arthritis in his hands. Undoubtedly, the weather pained him far more than it did me. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes. And you, Dr. Watson." He nodded courteously in my direction. I knew from my inquiries that you often assisted Mr. Holmes, and I am glad of it. This may indeed be a matter for a medical man, I fear my wife may be suffering from a senile dementia." He folded his twisted hands together, staring down at them. "This is very difficult for me."  
  
Holmes sat down as well. "Proceed in any way that is comfortable for you, Mr. Brown."  
  
"Nothing about this matter is comfortable for me, Mr. Holmes," Brown said. I behaved shamefully - for many years - and I fear that dear Deborah is now paying the price." He sighed and began his tale.  
  
"I was born, Mr. Holmes, into a family quite wealthy by Australian standards," Brown said. "As I matured the fortune grew as well. I was my father's only child and heir, and I knew my duty must one day be to carry on the family name to my own children. Pursuant to that goal I married Deborah Alexandra Robinson, the daughter of a missionary." He smiled at some happy memory. "She was a lovely girl with fiery red hair, tall and vivacious. Our marriage was quite happy at first, save that we had no children. As the years passed this began to wear upon my mind, Mr. Holmes. The doctors could find nothing physically wrong, yet we had no children. The subject became a barrier between us, leading to great conflict."  
  
Brown stopped, clearly overwrought. Holmes waited, watching, until the man continued his story "Finally I was driven to a step I now know to be unconscionable. I paid Deborah a considerable sum to disappear. She came to England. I gave it out that she had died on a trip abroad, and married again."  
  
Holmes met this revelation without a quiver. "Just so. The matter is one of blackmail, then?"  
  
Brown held up his hands helplessly. "Not against me, at any rate. I remarried. My children are long since grown, my second wife dead. She never knew anything of this. Deborah drew for years upon the trust fund I set up for her through a firm of London solicitors. At first she drew fairly large sums, then smaller amounts, finally almost nothing. They kept me appraised, you see -- they had the impression I was providing for a widowed sister-in-law. I had long since assumed that she had found prosperity on her own resources, either through marriage or through setting up some respectable business. It would be entirely like her to refuse my annuity once she no longer needed it. A great deal of money which was hers by right remained untouched in my solicitor's care."  
  
"Then suddenly, two months ago, a young man appeared at the solicitor's office with a power of attorney signed by Deborah. He drew off most of the interest that had accumulated in the fund over the past fifteen years. I fear this man has some hold over Deborah. He has blackmailed her of her own money until she drew on mine to satisfy him." Brown half rose from his chair in his agitation. "You must help her, Mr. Holmes!"  
  
"A blackmailer is the most despicable of creatures," Holmes said, turning a letter knife over and over in his long fingers. "You shall have my assistance, Mr. Brown. And the logical starting point is your solicitor's. The firm's name?"  
  
"Holt and Adams," Brown said. His face was flushed with a new, hopeful energy. "I cannot thank you enough, Mr. Holmes. Your fee ..."  
  
Brown reached for his checkbook, but Holmes held up one hand. "You may judge the value of my services after I have completed them, Mr. Brown," he said quietly. "Blackmail is the most likely possibility but not the only one. If your wife is giving away her money of her own free will, I can do nothing."  
  
********  
  
Holmes and I visited the offices of Holt and Adams that very afternoon, even before the rain had cleared. Brown had evidently anticipated our wishes and made us expected. An elderly clerk, on hearing Holmes' name, ushered us into the inner office at once. There, amidst a blizzard of dusty legal books and documents, a man of about sixty greeted us. "I've heard a great deal about you, Mr. Holmes," he said. "I am George Adams. You're here on the matter of Mrs. Brown, I gather?"  
  
"Indeed," Holmes said.  
  
Adams smiled, clearly proud of himself. "I know your professional reputation, sir. Perhaps you'll be glad to hear I have already done much of the investigation on this case."  
  
Knowing Holmes as I did, I sensed he was anything but pleased. Holmes (not a modest man) had often said that relying on the observations of others, when his deductive talents were needed, was like a great artist who let his students paint his backgrounds. "I see," he said dryly. "To what result?"  
  
Adams continued to smile. "First, the check we were compelled to issue to that young ruffian has been cashed, cleared through the bank, and returned to us. The man opened an account under the name Mr. Alec Reed at Weller's Bank. He gave us the same name. And Alec Reed, or so he told his bank, lives in a boarding house owned by the same Mrs. Brown."  
  
Holmes' irritation disappeared in a rare smile. "Quite respectable detection, I agree. And the address?"  
  
Adams named a street I recognized. "That is barely two blocks from St. Bartholomew's Hospital, Holmes," I said. "This Reed may well be a medical student, they live throughout that district."  
  
"Quite possible," said Holmes. "Did you note his appearance, Mr. Adams?  
  
"Barely twenty, I would say, but with a thick moustache," Adams said. "Dark brown hair. He was quite pale; I wondered if he might have been ill. Something frail about his general appearance, though I cannot say what besides his color gave that impression. He wore tinted glasses which hid his eyes. That alone made me suspicious of him. He was as tall as Dr. Watson, I would say, and quite thin."  
  
"Thank you," Holmes said. "If your information leads to this man's downfall - as it well may - I will certainly give you all due credit with your client."  
  
"So long as you catch him, Mr. Holmes," Adams said vehemently. "I worked in these offices as a boy, when my father owned the firm. I remember Mrs. Brown as she was; slender and stately, with blazing auburn hair. A beautiful woman, in her youth." He looked down at the papers on his desk as if embarrassed by his own show of emotion. "She had remarkable eyes. Those will not have changed, I think. I've never seen eyes like them. The right was blue, but the left was half blue and half brown. Not a mixture of colors -- two separate vertical semicircles, as if an artist had painted them so."  
  
Holmes nodded. "That detail may be very useful indeed. Thank you for your time, Mr. Adams." We left the office.  
  
After a speedy beginning to the case, Holmes began to move more cautiously. Through contacts from his own days at St. Bartholomew's, Holmes confirmed that Alec Reed was indeed a medical student at that hospital; further, most of his teachers considered him brilliant. Holmes also spent several days in the neighborhood in a variety of disguises. He summed up the case one evening when he returned to Baker Street after a day spent in the guise of a wandering cobbler.  
  
"The aged Mrs. Brown has disappeared from the face of the earth, Watson," Holmes said. "I spoke to her housekeeper, who has kept the boardinghouse in her absence; a sensible woman and I think a reliable witness. Brown has owned the house for nearly twenty years and kept up quiet and orderly habits. Three months ago, she changed those habits completely.  
  
"Mrs. Brown put the boardinghouse up for sale -- I spoke to the house agent she entrusted with that task -- and announced plans for an extended tour of the continent," Holmes said. "She left with only one trunk, however. Reed arrived at the house only after her departure. Evidently whatever previous meetings they had took place in secret. Reed occupies the finest rented room in the house, one with its own bath. He avoids the other tenants and his landlady, except for the necessary contact of paying his rent."  
  
"He might fear they will discover he's harmed Mrs. Brown in some way," I suggested.  
  
"Possibly," Holmes said. "Aside from that one oddity, he gives the appearance of an exemplary character. I've followed him for most of the last two days. The youth divides his time between his medical lectures, the reading room of the British Museum, and the occasional quiet walk in the park."  
  
"As you say. Yet we know he's committed robbery at least, if not extortion or worse," I said. "Could Reed have murdered Mrs. Brown? Once he had persuaded her to hand over her life's savings ..."  
  
Holmes shook his head. "My mind runs to the worst possibilities as well, but I fail to see how Reed could profit from Mrs. Brown's sale of her house. For all we can prove, the two never met before she disappeared." He became even more serious. "Watson, I think this case calls for more direct measures. Would you be willing to risk breaking the law in a good cause?"  
  
"If you wish."  
  
Holmes smiled. "Stout fellow. The only useful idea I have at the moment is to burgle Reed's room and see what we can gain by a bit of judicious searching.  
  
--------------  
  
Holmes' knowledge of Reed's regular habits, and of the use of skeleton keys, got us safely into Reed's room on the ground floor of Mrs. Brown's former home. The room was large and comfortable, abundantly stocked with medical books. I took those as my portion of the search. Holmes operated upon the locks of several drawers with a smaller skeleton key.  
  
"From the dates of these books, Reed studied medicine for several years even before he enrolled as a medical student," I said. "And I think I can deduce his field of interest."  
  
I had used Holmes' favorite word deliberately; in truth, I felt quite proud of myself. "And that is?" Holmes said with sudden interest.  
  
"All the dog-eared pages in these books, the underlined passages, the places where frequent reading has creased the spine so the book falls open to a specific place ... Reed has an intense interest in the aging process, and in barrenness in women. He seems to have been frustrated by the lack of data." I held up a page for Holmes' inspection. The margin bore the words Useless! Nothing! scrawled in a spidery hand.  
  
"Good work., Watson," Holmes said warmly. "My searches have borne fruit as well -- familiar fruit." He leaned over one particularly deep drawer in the bureau. "A very complete actor's makeup kit - gray wigs, greasepaint, and hair dye of several colors. Every item an expert would need to change his appearance, especially to grow older. And in the wardrobe, clothing appropriate to all ages and both sexes. Our Mr. Reed is evidently a master of disguise."  
  
"Both sexes, you said?" I carried the medical text with me and examined the clothing Holmes had pointed out. A black dress appropriate to a dowager stood first in the row of garments. "Good Lord, Holmes, that's the answer. Reed murdered Mrs. Brown some months ago. He disguised himself as the poor lady, and pretended to leave the country to throw any pursuers off his trail. When Mrs. Brown's agent has sold this house, Reed will disguise himself as an old woman again and defraud her of that money as well."  
  
Holmes smiled and shook his head. "A pity, Watson - and to fall so soon after your previous triumph. You're ignoring the evidence you yourself provided, these books." He tapped the volume in my hand. I doubt that Reed studied barrenness and the aging process for his own amusement. Those two topics are too closely connected to Mrs. Brown's life. No, I think our young friend appeared to Mrs. Brown as an elderly man or woman, using these disguises.  
  
"He presented himself as the discoverer of a fountain of youth. With the makeup here, he could then gradually make himself appear younger as proof of his claims and defraud her of everything. Perhaps he even promised her restored fertility as well as youth, since barrenness ruined her early life. No, Watson, young Mr. Reed is a ruthless and unscrupulous charlatan, but nothing here proves him Mrs. Brown's murderer." Holmes looked satisfied at his own expertise, like a cat who has trapped a mouse. He opened a smaller bureau drawer with an air of triumph.  
  
Holmes' gray eyes went wide with surprise and horror. "Great Lord in Heaven ... Watson, look at this. It cannot be Mrs. Brown's, but Reed may have murdered someone after all." Holmes reached into the drawer and brought out a long, dark brown skein of woman's hair.  
  
-----------  
  
The scrape of a key in the room's door brought us to our senses. I flung the medical book back into its place, while Holmes shut drawers with delicate speed. We crowded together into the only possible hiding place, the big wardrobe full of disguises. Reed walked into the room carrying yet another armload of medical books.  
  
He was a tall thin boy, as the lawyer Mr. Adams had said. Even now, indoors long after sunset, he still wore the tinted spectacles. His brown moustache looked odd on his thin, pale, otherwise hairless face. Reed dropped his books onto the bed and stretched up to light a gas jet. With more light in the room, Reed's eyes swept across his bookshelves. He froze, then looked across to the wardrobe. "You ought to put things back where you find them," he said in a high tenor voice with an Australian accent. "Out of there, then, and let's have a look at you." He stood with his arms crossed on his chest, unafraid and angry.  
  
We had no real choice. Holmes and I came out of hiding. "I suggest you not attempt any violence," my friend told the angry youth. "We are two to your one."  
  
"Two burglars," Reed said coolly.  
  
"I think not. You might as well come to the police station with us, Mr. Reed; you have questions to answer. I am Sherlock Holmes." He identified himself with the air of someone playing a trump card.  
  
Though his career had barely begun, Holmes had already acquired a reputation in some London circles including St. Bartholomew's. "The Sherlock Holmes, of course. I doubt there's another one." Reed seemed not at all upset by the confrontation. "And what am I accused of?"  
  
Embezzling money from your landlady, Mrs. Deborah Brown, and causing her disappearance," Holmes said. "As well, I'm certain Inspector Lestrade would like to know where you got this." Holmes picked up the long skein of hair. "It may come to a murder charge."  
  
Reed looked surprised and upset for the first time. "I should have known it would come out sooner or later," he said morosely.  
  
I stared at him. "Are you confessing?"  
  
He smiled for the first time. Something about the expression disconcerted me. "Not at all. Dr. Watson, isn't it? No, as a matter of fact," his attention shifted back to Holmes, "I deny every crime you suspect me of. I embezzled no money, kidnapped no old woman, and murdered no one. I didn't even steal anyone's cast-off hair." Reed patted the skein, now lying on the bureau. "Everything I have here is legally and rightfully mine."  
  
"Can you prove that?" Holmes said sharply.  
  
"Indeed I can." Alec Reed smiled wryly and turned to the mirror. He turned back with his glasses in one hand and his moustache dangling in the other.  
  
I gasped in surprise, and I think Holmes joined me. We stood facing not a young man, but a tall, healthy young woman. Her right eye was blue; her left, mingled blue and brown. "I am Deborah Alexandra Brown."   
  
Holmes quickly recovered himself. "Mrs. Brown could be your grandmother, young lady, " he said sharply. "Unless you intend to claim that you really did discover some fountain of youth ..."  
  
"Of course I didn't," the girl said. "Such a thing is far, far beyond the capabilities of modern science. I should know. I've been studying the subject for fifty years."  
  
"Impossible," Holmes said. "I concede that you have Deborah Brown's characteristic eyes, but some descendant of hers ..."  
  
The girl leaned back against the edge of the bureau, evidently enjoying my friend's consternation. "That's the easiest assumption, certainly. Only, Deborah was known to be barren, wasn't she? Perhaps I'm a stranger who coincidentally has the same physical oddity." She gestured toward her own face.  
  
Against all reason, I believed her. This woman had the commanding beauty Roland Brown had described, the quality that had kept him captivated through a fifty-year separation. "Holmes, I've never seen another eye pigmentation of this kind. I know of no way of mimicking it," I said quietly. "The odds against ... "  
  
He raised one hand. "I know, Watson, I know." Holmes was staring at her. "You claim to be eighty years old?" he said quietly.  
  
"I am." She ran a hand over one smooth cheek to show she wasn't wearing cosmetics. Not that any paint could have hidden so many years - the girl was intensely, vibrantly healthy. "I've never aged, since I finished growing. It took me years to realize it, and after decades of study I still don't know why."  
  
"Why did you disguise yourself as a man?" Holmes asked.  
  
"To study medicine, of course," Deborah Brown said. "It was easy, after so many years of independent reading in the field." She continued to stroke the skein of hair. "I dyed my hair brown before I cut it, so I could make a moustache the same color and texture as my own hair. Spirit gum. I've gotten quite good at theatrical makeup." She smiled. "Compared to the task of gradually aging myself, dyed hair and a moustache were trivialities."  
  
I could only believe her story, and I saw the same response in Holmes. If you're still young at age eighty, why study the aging process?" I asked.  
  
Her mottled eyes were despairing. "To make it work properly. I want to be normal."  
  
"Ridiculous," Holmes said. "Even granting the truth of your story. Everyone wants ... "  
  
Then everyone is a fool," Mrs. Brown said bitterly. "My inborn strangeness can benefit no one else, Mr. Holmes. I was and am barren, that much was quite true. Long life scarcely benefits me, either. I dare not marry again, or even make close friends. Whoever I grow close to will die, in a small fraction of my lifetime. In a shorter time still, twenty or thirty years, they'll realize my secret and grow to hate me for envy of it. Eternity alone -- isn't that a good working definition of hell?" She continued to lock gazes with Holmes.  
  
He dropped his eyes. "It seems no crime has been committed here," Holmes said in a subdued tone. "I have no intention of telling your ... claims to anyone, madam. Obviously, whoever you are, Mrs. Brown intends you to have her money. That is what I shall tell your husband."  
  
She nodded. "Thank you. Roland is a decent man. I might still be married to him, except for the age difference."  
  
-------  
  
Looking over my notes today in 1920, I find the story no easier to believe than in 1881 when I first penned it. Over the years Holmes and I discussed the Brown case from time to time, never coming to any definite conclusions about her incredible story. I would not have made up my mind even now, except for a recent event. Returning from a visit to Sussex a few days ago, I changed trains at Victoria Station. In the crowd I unfortunately jostled a young lady, making her drop a parcel.  
  
I stooped (more slowly than in former years) to retrieve the package, and found myself looking up into a pair of blue-brown eyes. Her hair was auburn again, cut in a fashionable bob. The girl smiled at me, and caught up her belongings with the energy and flexibility of youth. "Thank you, Dr. Watson." She disappeared into the crowd.  



End file.
